“I know all you think, and all you feel: I know,” whispered Mrs. Ormond, “the name that is on your lips.”
“No, indeed, you do not; you cannot,” cried Virginia, suddenly raising her head, and looking up in Mrs. Ormond’s face, with surprise and timidity: “how could you possibly know all my thoughts and feelings? I never told them to you; for, indeed, I have only confused ideas floating in my imagination from the books I have been reading. I do not distinctly know my own feelings.”
“This is all very natural, and a proof of your perfect innocence and simplicity, my child. But why did the passage you were reading just now strike you so much?”
“I was only considering,” said Virginia, “whether it was the description of—love.”
“And your heart told you that it was?”
“I don’t know,” said she, sighing. “But of this I am certain, that I had not the name, which you were thinking of, upon my lips.”
Ah! thought Mrs. Ormond, she has not forgotten how I checked her sensibility some time ago. Poor girl! she is become afraid of me, and I have taught her to dissemble; but she betrays herself every moment.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, “you need not fear me—I cannot blame you: in your situation, it is impossible that you could help loving Mr. Hervey.”
“Is it?”
“Yes; quite impossible. So do not blame yourself for it.”